Of Honeyed Tea and Hot Water Bottles
by Grac3
Summary: "Mycroft's ill." / "And you're taking care of him?" / "Yes." A sick fic featuring ill!Mycroft and overprotective!Sherlock.


**Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock.**

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It started with a text.

After being without a case for seven full days, when Sherlock's phone, which had been lying on the arm of the sofa, began to vibrate, he whipped it up with record speed.

What happened next was rather curious.

John watched from the armchair as Sherlock got to his feet. He expected the detective to throw his coat and scarf on, before calling for the doctor to follow him to whatever horrific crime scene Lestrade was summoning them to. Yet instead of going anywhere near the door, Sherlock began pacing insistently across the living room. He replied to whatever text he had received as he walked, and held his phone precariously between his palms, his fingertips resting on his lips.

"What was that?" John asked. He was met with silence.

Sherlock's pacing persisted for half an hour; at regular intervals, he would check his phone for – John assumed – new information, which would then be followed by impatient scowls and sighs when none such information had arrived.

Half an hour after the text, there was a knock on the door. Not on the front door of the building, but on the door of their flat. Over the year that John had lived with Sherlock Holmes, it had been impossible for the man's deductive abilities to not rub off on him: there were only two people who would bypass the front door of the building, and Mrs Hudson wouldn't bother to knock.

That could only mean one thing.

Mycroft.

John steeled himself for the explosion that was no doubt coming. Over the past twelve months, he had been the reluctant referee of many a bitch fight between the brothers, and never once had it ended well. This time, though, things were a little different.

Usually, Sherlock would bark at the door as a way of 'inviting' his brother in. This time, however, he rushed to the door with all the urgency of the there being a case file courier waiting patiently just outside. He wrenched the door nearly off its hinges, and, when there was no longer a pane of wood separating the elder Holmes from the flat, John could see why.

Mycroft stood at the threshold to the flat, his umbrella in his hand – though it was obvious that it had not accompanied the politician in case of a sudden downpour; rather, it appeared that he was leaning on it for support. The sight of such a powerful man looking as pale as Mycroft did at that moment made John almost pinch himself. With the evidence before him, he could come to one conclusion; and one conclusion only: Mycroft Holmes was ill.

"Brother," Sherlock murmured, his tone holding none of its usual bite reserved for his older brother. Mycroft responded with a thin smile and John realised that he was shaking. The younger flicked his head in the direction of his bedroom, standing aside to let the elder in.

"Thank you," Mycroft whispered, his voice croaky and cracked, before stepping into the flat and heading in the given direction.

"What's going on?" John dared to ask, going to get up. He was met with a particularly venomous look from Sherlock. It was not a look that the good doctor had ever been on the receiving end of, and it was not one that he would want to be on the receiving end of ever again. He shrank back into the armchair, and watched in complete confusion as Sherlock followed his brother to his bedroom, slamming the door with a definitive _bang_ that said Do Not Disturb.

John sat in the armchair for a good ten minutes, thoroughly perplexed. No sounds were coming from his flatmate's bedroom, and he had no way of knowing what was going on behind that door. Based on the little information that he had, he would guess that Sherlock was looking after his ill brother. But that seemed completely inconsistent with his personality.

He had the chance to ask his queries of his flatmate fifteen minutes after Mycroft had arrived, when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom – carefully closing the door behind him – and marched with no small amount of urgency into the kitchen.

"Sherlock," John began tentatively, pushing himself out of the armchair and going through to the kitchen.

"Hmm?" the detective hummed evasively, as he made a cup of tea with honey. Not letting the fact that his flatmate knew where the honey was kept shock him into silence, John continued.

"What's going on?" He had not found a better way of phrasing his query in the last fifteen minutes.

"Mycroft's ill," Sherlock explained simply as he put the honey back in the fridge.

"Yes," John agreed, feeling as though he was talking to a brick wall. "And you're taking care of him?"

"Yes." Sherlock took the tea and made for his bedroom again.

"Um…" John made to follow him, but Sherlock was walking too fast to catch up with. "_Why_?"

He was awarded with no vocal answer, just the closing of the door. He wasn't close enough for the door to have been shut in his face, but it felt like it had all the same. He wandered back into the living room, his head spinning. He took one look at his armchair, scratched his head, and then decided that he needed to know what was going on.

He turned on his heel and headed back towards the bedroom. He had just reached the door when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

_We are fine. If we need you, I will let you know. – SH_

John stared at the text in disbelief. He knew that Sherlock had more than just the capacity to be cold – he had witnessed almost frightening levels of rudeness from the detective – but never once had he been this way to John. He felt as though the tables had been completely turned: he was being shunned.

Knowing full well from past experience that to cross Sherlock when he was in such a snippy mood was never a good idea, John had no choice but to respect his wishes, no matter how strange those wishes appeared to be. He spent the rest of the evening as he would have any other – watching the telly, drinking tea, reading – and only saw his flatmate when he left his bedroom to retrieve whatever he needed from the kitchen. John had tried to communicate to Sherlock during these excursions, but was consistently met with steely silence. He eventually gave up.

After Sherlock had reappeared to make up a hot water bottle, before returning to his room with a stiff "Good night" directed at his flatmate, John decided to go off to bed himself.

He would work all this out in the morning.

~{G}~

The first thing that John noticed when he awoke was silence. Apart from the sounds of the city that the doctor had learned to tune out since moving to Baker Street, there was nothing; no sounds of insistent pacing or violins or small explosions. It was… odd. Almost disconcerting. But as he lay there, the memories of the previous day returned to him with a vengeance.

The text.

The minor government official turning up to the flat ill.

The detective turned doctor – or, rather, nurse.

John dressed quickly, venturing out into the flat beyond his room with some sense of trepidation.

"Sherlock?" he called out to the flat, though he kept his voice low for reasons best known only to God Himself. Nothing appeared to have been touched in the living room, and the kitchen was similarly undisturbed. John could only deduce that the detective had yet to leave his room.

John padded his way across the living room until he reached Sherlock's bedroom door. It was still shut, but it didn't appear to have been locked. The doctor knocked quietly at the door twice, and, when he was answered with mere silence, pushed it open as quietly as he could.

The sight that met his eyes was not one he ever thought he would forget.

It was not only that Sherlock appeared to be fast asleep – though that in itself was shocking enough.

It was not even that the two brothers were sleeping in the same bed.

It was that Sherlock seemed to be clinging on to his ill brother: Mycroft's head was on Sherlock's shoulder, and the detective's arms were wrapped around the politician's middle. If it wasn't so weird, it would have been cute.

John had to physically shake his head to get over what he was seeing – or to wake himself up if it transpired that he was in fact still asleep – before resigning himself to the strange acceptance that this was actually happening.

He took a step forward, the doctor in him desperate to be assured that Mycroft's fever had broken overnight. He reached out his hand to the politician's brow, but froze when a disturbing noise reached his ear: a growl – an actual growl – had begun in the throat of his flatmate.

He looked up to see Sherlock baring his teeth, and the detective's grip tightened on his brother, who slept on unawares. The action somehow reminded John of a lioness protecting her cub. He quickly drew his hand back and retreated to the living room.

Throwing himself into his armchair, he found himself staring into space for a long time. The image of Sherlock being so protective – of _anyone_, least of all his brother – was burned into his consciousness. He supposed that it was sweet, but at the same time it was such an alien concept that something just seemed wrong with the picture.

John didn't know how long he had been sitting there when the door to Sherlock's room opened and the detective emerged.

"Good morning," he mumbled, his voice sounding distracted as though most of his concentration was focussed on another task.

"Um, Sherlock…" John began, standing and turning so that he could see his flatmate. Sherlock was gathering various items that had been haphazardly strewn around the flat since the detective had last left the building: wallet, keys, phone, and other essentials needed for exiting their abode and venturing out into the world beyond. "I think we need to talk."

"Not right now, John," Sherlock waved casually in the doctor's general direction as he tucked his wallet into his pocket. "I have to go to the shop and get some medicine."

"We have medicine here," John told him, glancing to the medicine cupboard in the kitchen. He hadn't taken his weekly inventory yet, though it was entirely possible that Sherlock had used everything from the Lemsip to the small, round plasters whose possible use John wasn't entirely sure of in the various experiments that the detective had been doing lately.

"No we don't," Sherlock shook his head, still looking extremely absorbed in things other than the conversation he was currently engaged in; he wasn't even looking at John. "I used it all and now we need some more."

With that, he swept past the doctor and left the flat. It happened so fast that John didn't have time to react, so he simply stayed in the middle of the living room, staring dumbly at the medicine cupboard which he now knew to be completely empty. He turned slowly to the door to the detective's bedroom, wondering whether or not its tenant was awake yet.

Once he had gathered himself, he strode purposefully across the flat, knocking softly on the door for the second time that morning. This time, however, he was invited in with a tired call.

John quietly pushed the door open and stepped inside. Mycroft was sitting up in the bed, his legs outstretched before him and his hands clasped in his lap. He looked better than he had the night before, but only marginally. Some colour had returned to his cheeks but he looked incredibly tired, and there was a thin sheen of sweat across his brow that hadn't been there before he had woken.

"Good morning, John," he smiled thinly, his voice croaky.

"Good morning," John nodded as he closed the door behind him.

"You have questions."

John chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "A few, yeah."

Mycroft gestured to a chair at the foot of the bed, and John sat down. "What would you like to know?" the politician asked, his voice slow and careful.

"How are you feeling?" John felt that he should start with something simple.

"I've been better, but I have improved. Thank you."

John nodded absent-mindedly, staring at a spot on the floor next to the bed. None of his other questions would have such short answers, he knew. He felt almost guilty at asking them of someone who was so obviously ill.

"Why did you come _here_?" He looked up at Mycroft. "Surely you have an army of doctors on hand to look after you. You probably have someone paid to fetch you a tissue if it looks like you're about to sneeze."

Mycroft smirked. "There is no doubt that I could have such things," he agreed. "But I do not have the luxury of being able to use orthodox methods of receiving medical treatment. If the knowledge that I was… ah… out of action, as it were, was to reach certain individuals, they would no doubt use my absence to their own advantage and that could be disastrous."

"Okay," John conceded. "But why didn't you text me? Why is Sherlock looking after you, and why wouldn't he let me anywhere near you?"

Mycroft looked away and stared at his hands.

"I have always been susceptible to the flu," he began quietly. "The symptoms are always extremely exacerbated, and it makes me feel wretched. Unfortunately, the annual vaccine does not seem to prevent my catching it.

"Our parents never used to believe me when I would tell them how ill I was. They thought that I was making it up to avoid participating in family activities, or to stay at home from school. Even when they did see that something was truly wrong, they merely encouraged me to 'buck up'. Illness is a weakness that must be overcome.

"When Sherlock was old enough, he saw how ill I became. He feared that our parents were doing far more harm than good, and so took the matter of my care into his own hands. He wouldn't let anyone else near me; he didn't trust them." The politician chuckled. "It infuriated our parents."

John stared at the bedridden politician in disbelief, finding it very difficult to not feel slightly betrayed. He was a doctor – a _good_ doctor – and surely he could be trusted to treat a patient well?

"I must admit, I did not think that he would exclude you as well," Mycroft commented, seemingly reading John's mind. "I… I'm sorry."

John looked up at him. "That's okay. It's just… wow," he sniggered. When he had quietened once more, he took in the appearance of the exhausted politician; he could barely keep his eyes open. "You should get some rest." He pushed himself out of the chair and made to leave, closing the door behind him.

When Sherlock returned half an hour later, looking as flustered and confused as he always did whenever he went to the shops by himself, it was clear from the moment he walked through the door that he was aware of what had occurred in his absence. Even so, he didn't mention it; he simply headed straight for his bedroom armed with whatever medicine he had purchased.

It was not for another two hours that the brothers emerged, by which time John was on his laptop. Mycroft was already beginning to look a lot better; it seemed that Sherlock was a better doctor than John would have given him credit for.

The politician was dressed, wearing a different suit to the one in which he had arrived, and was twirling his umbrella. He still appeared a little pale, but for the most part he was fully functioning.

"I assume you'll be helping me with the Fitzgerald case, then, Sherlock?" Mycroft enquired of his brother. "I notice you are in need of a new one," he commented, eyeing the latest bullet hole in the wall.

"Of course not," Sherlock smirked. "You were not at death's door."

"Goodbye, John," Mycroft called, not looking back as he left the flat.

"See… you…"

The door shut with a _click_, and an awkward silence descended over the flat. It lasted for approximately fifteen seconds before Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke.

"John… maybe don't write about this on your blog?"

John scowled, but held backspace all the same.

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**A.N.:** So, I don't know if you can get Lemsip outside of England, but in case you can't and you don't know what I'm talking about, it's a drink that's used to cure cold and flu symptoms.

**A.N.2:** I realised when I was writing this that there are kind of Holmescest-y undertones. That was _not_ my intention (I'm sorry if you ship it, but I don't).


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